If you looked closely,
You might notice,
The dark circles under her eyes,
The creases in her forehead.

If you paid attention,
You might notice,
Her bitten down fingernails,
The dead look in her eyes.

If you really looked at her,
You might notice,
The tear streaks beside her eyes,
The tiny scars on her arms.

If you watched her,
You might notice,
The way she looks sad when someone says love,
The frown she wears when no one is watching.

But if you didn't pay attention,
You would see,
A kind, humorous, and loving girl
Who has so much ambition.

I wouldn't change the way I am
But I am a passionate person
I react strongly to everything
I love fast and hard
If only I could
Stop…
As easily as switching a light
On
        And
                   Off
But it only works one way
And I am destroying myself
Each time a little more
I pour my entire being in one go
I give and give and give until nothing is left
But
So often I am rewarded with silence
Then the pain
The pain
Is the worst kind
A burning blade slicing and burning
Fire in your veins
The pain makes my mind go numb
And attempt at shutting it all off
But always comes back
With a vengeance
I am a passionate person
And as they all do
Passions come with a price
I wonder how long I will be willing
**To pay.

A girl with arms and legs
A brain
A liver
A heart
 
A broken one
The liver I mean,
Not the heart!
Lost, but never in-pieces
 
She doesn't personally own one,
Or she does, it was stolen you see
The one she has now, she loaned
Just until she finds her own!
 
Though the time she uses to pay back her loan
Is time away from finding the stolen core
She pays through her liver
And her innocence
 
Speculating where her heart actually went
She gradually rewinds her life
To see when it disappeared
 
Maybe it was beaten out of her by her father,
Or flushed out when she put her finger in her throat.
Maybe she left it with her virginity,
Or she threw it away with her dignity?

Monday's vision's fair of face
in the evenings the plasma rays shine
bright until seen through a window at a distance
******* energy from cables to my mind
blinding into happily blinkered existence

Tuesday's vision's full of grace
guilt makes me pull the covertous shutters down
being the observer is peep peeping embarrassing
being observed pays to add overtising shows on
it's so good not stirring when it's too disturbing

Wednesday's vision's full of woe
I am wilfully weak and slack on the couch
enjoying not having to speak or think
about being set up to get upset by nothing much
the sights flow seamless except when I blink

Thursday's vision has far to go
I would be there now but for one glitch
one flaw in the network's mesmeric sell
shared channels free as birds but rich
beyond the dragnet of any script's sequel

Friday's vision's loving and giving
in the smallest way it's electric beyond measure
distractions demanding attention with a hush
willing the constant whirling on with fresh images
look-look euphoric hooks to reel me in with a rush

Saturday's vision works hard for a living
and I'm wrapped in the dream of existing
by a simple drama of a varnished toenail
extending to a click the vanish going
going the way of Ting Ting Cao
your magnetic stimulation of the transcranial
kicks in and in my scrambled vision I saw
me touch your assimilation on redial
absorbing Sunday entire and raw
footage on display a draw so real
the pay channels dropped their jaw
surreal

So now the thing is over
all the pundits have gone back home
and the Rimet Trophy has been put away
to be played for again another day
some managers will now lose their teams
for not fulfilling a nation’s dreams.

But it is football, just a game
men paid so much, disgraceful shame
while others struggle to put food on the table
players cavorted like Betty Grable
but we watched it still – we cannot stop
I wonder when the penny will drop.

I remember pictures in black and white
when games were played in failing light
where players had jobs to earn their pay
and played the game on Saturday
where then the ref’s decision was law
and players didn't roll round on the floor.

Those days are gone and that’s for sure
the ***** were heavy and kit was poor
but player’s hearts were in the game
and not the glory of fleeting fame
when celebrity wasn't theme of the day
for men oft found to have ‘feet of clay’.

©Joe Wilson – The Jules Rimet 2014

I can still remember Franz Beckenbauer playing on after breaking his arm, simply by wearing a black sling to support it…a sight you wouldn't see today.

I want to find the person
Who dulled that gleam in your eye
The person who made you believe
That love doesn't last
And no one stays forever
I want to find her, make her pay
In tears, in lies,
For everything she did to you

Myriad of distasteful smells
Grease and mold and rot
I hold my breath and walk
Along the lonely hot blacktop
I can't stop, I can't stop
I'm already running late

Past the towering gate of cedar
Into a human sea
Weaving through groups
Of preteen girls
Dressed like they're twenty three
Under the twisting orange rails
And past the elder train
I can't talk, I can't talk
I'm already running late

Through the courtyard of the wolf
Beyond the bubbling fount
Near the infinite tidal wave
Pass between the pillars
And now I'm at the gate
Step inside the hovel
This is where my work begins
I can't walk, I can't walk
My legs are spent for a bit

Then I man my battle station
I'm ready for the rush
Six hours later still on my feet
They start to feel like mush
My arms are heavy my eyelids sag
And my back begins to ache
My voice is sore my mind is numb
But I don't get a break
I can't stop, I can't stop
I'm working for my pay

Another dollar, another day
You know I'm working for my pay